


The Secrets We Keep

by Raine_Wynd



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series, Witchblade (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Booty Calls, Conversations, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Foul Language, Friendship, Grief, One Night Stands, Past Relationship(s), Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: Late night comfort and the morning after.
Relationships: Connor MacLeod/Other(s), Sara Pezzini/Connor MacLeod, Sara Pezzini/Other(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	The Secrets We Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Another of the fics I've been writing a while. I like this part the most, so this is the part you're getting; if/when I write more, it'll be posted as a sequel to this rather than a new chapter (no promises, though!)

_April 2019_

The doorbell chimed, startling Connor out of sleep. A glance at his bedside clock told him it was 3 AM. The only people who would ring his doorbell at this hour were pranksters or someone who knew him. Most passersby assumed the doorbell was for the antique shop, given it was on the side of the building. Not sensing the telltale warning of another immortal, he debated ignoring it. Given the bars in the neighborhood, a drunk or a prankster was plausible.

He lay in bed, debating his next move. Pranksters rang the bell repeatedly in succession. Drunks usually followed up the doorbell with pounding on the door. Aware he would not get back to sleep until he figured it out, Connor sighed and got out of bed. He checked the wall-mounted video display for his security system. The full-color camera revealed a tall woman standing on his doorstep. She wore a leather motorcycle jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots, and carried her helmet in her left hand. Thanks to her helmet, her shoulder-length chocolate brown hair lay flat. She had an oval face with a strong nose, green eyes, thin eyebrows and a wide mouth. Exhaustion and grief radiated from her.

Connor swore as he recognized her as Sara Pezzini. He put on sweatpants and a shirt, then hastened downstairs to greet her.

When he pulled open the door, she looked relieved.

“Hi. I’ve had a shitty week, and I need a hug. I swear my trouble isn’t the kind you hate.” She offered him a wry smile. “I know I’m barging in and you hate uninvited visitors _—_ ”

He cut off her rambling by pulling her inside. She flowed with his movement; another would have stumbled. Once inside, she turned and stepped to the side so he could shut and lock the door. Connor took her helmet. He reached for her jacket; she shed it without hesitation. He set both articles on the entryway table. Noticing she wore her service pistol in a duty holster, Connor, with a look, asked if she needed that, too.

She hesitated before she undid her service holster and set it down on the entryway bench. She knelt and undid her boots, pulling them off and pulling out her hideout gun and holster.

Connor remembered her insistence on wearing her service weapon in public. He had forgotten she also carried a hideout gun. He waited until she was ready before he led her into the sunken living room, then put his arms around her.

She sagged into the hug he offered. The dampness of silent tears soon stained his shirt. He did not ask questions. Though it had been five years since he had last seen Sara Pezzini, finding her on his doorstep did not surprise Connor. He had meant it when he told her that anytime she needed a friend, he would answer. Connor had been convinced his cousin would be stronger if Connor forced him to take his head. Sara had been the one to point out the flaws in that logic, saying that Duncan would be off-balance with grief and thus more vulnerable.

_“Damn it, Connor, you’re letting depression and loneliness decide for you! A prophecy is not a guarantee,” Sara had shouted at Connor. “Cassandra is not some infallible seer! Her word alone should not be the basis for anyone’s decisions. Two Highlanders are better than one! The asshole who’s determined to take you out of the Game wants both of you dead. Whoever takes that asshole’s head will need a week to recover. If it’s Duncan, he’ll look to you for help since you won the last mini-Gathering. Did you never consider that?”_

_Shocked, Connor stared at her. “What do you know of the Game and the Gathering? How do you know those words?”_

_Sara had closed her eyes and taken a deep breath. “I’m the Wielder of the Witchblade. The Witchblade is a mystical, semi-sentient gauntlet which allows its wearer to see the past and the future, among other gifts. I’ve known you were immortal since before you walked into the gym that day; the Witchblade told me. It told me you needed me and showed me a future where you continued with your plans. It said you would give yourself to your cousin to strengthen him; I don’t agree with that notion. Not when I can see another future where you and Duncan will be needed—together.”_

_“Did that thing tell you to seduce me?” Connor demanded, furious._

_“No. That was all me.” Sara met his angry gaze. “The more I got to know you, the more I wanted you, even knowing you’d be livid when I told you why.”_

_Connor had been angry at her deception, though he understood that he, too, had been holding back. He had been ready to tell her about his immortality, to move their relationship to the next stage. The look of regret in her eyes had seared into Connor’s memory. It said the Witchblade had forewarned her of that conversation, too. Sara had lived with that knowledge, known their relationship would end in goodbye._

_“Does that thing tell you everything?” he had demanded._

_“No. Only flashes of what it thinks I need to know, which isn’t the same as what I want to know. It’s contrary and thrives on chaos. Some days, I’m glad I’m a homicide cop; it loves blood and death. If I could, I’d stay. But I’ll only get in the way of what you need, which is someone who isn’t the Wielder of the Witchblade. Go, reconnect with your cousin, and make sure he’s not in the same headspace as you were.”_

Connor had not seen her in the boxing gym since. His inquiries revealed she was still a member, somehow avoiding him. No doubt the Witchblade enabled her avoidance. As the time had passed, Connor chalked up the relationship as ‘good while it lasted.’ Still, he had missed her. Sara’s blunt pragmatism, uninhibited passion, and acceptance of secrets made her unique. She had been right to give him the space to reconnect with his cousin. Connor was annoyed, though, that connecting with Duncan had been easier because they both were dealing with heartbreak.

Even as Connor held Sara, he wondered what drove her to break her avoidance of him. Was there no one in her life? What godawful vision had the Witchblade shown her? he wondered but did not speak his thoughts aloud.

Silent, shaking sobs racked Sara’s frame. She was not a wailer, but someone who cried as though she had learned to cry without disturbing others. Connor’s heart hurt for Sara.

Eventually, Connor guided them to the couch, and found a box of tissues for Sara. She composed herself and dried her eyes. The Witchblade, an inch-wide filigree bracelet with a carnelian stone, grew into an impressive forearm version on Sara’s right arm. Sara took a deep breath, willing it to behave, but it resisted, growing more flourishes instead.

When one tendril of the Witchblade touched his arm, Connor flinched at the cold, metallic touch. His eyes widened as he realized it was trying to pull him even closer. “What happened?”

She looked up at the ceiling before she took another deep breath. “My girlfriend broke up with me three weeks ago. Ashley said I was too creepy with the way I would know things and how it would all come true. I warned her not to go to that damned club, but she always laughed off my concerns.”

Connor’s heart ached for her. “She’s dead,” he concluded.

Sara nodded. “She had my number in her emergency contacts, so they called me to ID her. I was coming off shift and _—_ ” Sara broke off as a fresh wave of grief hit her.

Connor pulled Sara close. “I’m here; it’s okay,” he reassured her.

“So damn fucking tired of losing people,” Sara swore. “So tired of being alone. I tried to pick up someone and _—_ ”

“The Witchblade reminded you Ashley’s death was foreseen,” Connor surmised. “And showed you how the person you’d chosen would be the same way.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She studied Connor for a long moment, searching his eyes. “It’s screaming in my head right now. Please make love to me and drown it out for a while? I tried drinking, but it keeps sobering me up.” She hesitated. “If you’re with someone, I’ll go home and thank you for letting me cry on your shoulder.”

Giving her a night’s pleasure to drown out the voices in her head was the least Connor could do for her. He kissed her sweetly, welcoming her.

Sara sighed into the kiss before returning it with urgency.

Connor half-smiled before pulling back, taking her hand, and leading the way upstairs.

* * *

A grand, king-sized four-poster bed dominated the room. Double-drawer nightstands with wall scones flanked the bed. A seating area for two with a table big enough for a coffee service sat under the windows, while the ensuite bathroom was in the right corner. Relieved to see her memory of the room had not failed her, Sara took comfort in the lack of change.

Connor let her take her measure of the room as he pulled the covers back.

He drew her to the bed and kissed her gently.

The tenderness made her heart ache, but she welcomed it. Connor kissed Sara as if it was the first time kissing her all over again. Sara did not dwell on it, soaking up the welcome and joy he offered. The gentleness, such a contrast to the intense way Ashley had approached lovemaking, brought tears to Sara’s eyes. She inhaled deeply and blinked back tears.

Connor gave her a moment. “Only if you want this, Sara.”

She smiled through her tears. “I do. I missed you.”

Suddenly, discovering what he was wearing under his shirt and sweatpants seemed vital to her.

He chuckled at her sudden impatience to get him nude but helped her with the task before returning the favor.

“Still like boxer briefs, I see,” he teased her as he helped her out of the garment.

“You never minded,” she reminded him.

He grinned wickedly. “Still don’t.”

The Witchblade reminded her how he loved to take his time when making love. Sara shivered in anticipation.

 _‘He is good to us,_ ’ the Witchblade chittered in Sara’s head.

Sara acknowledged it even as she willed the gauntlet to a more benign version of itself. To her relief, it heeded her, pleased she had gone to someone who understood. Satisfied it would not interfere any further with her life, at least for the next few hours, she focused on the man who held her in his arms. He explored her body with the intent on turning her into a panting puddle of pleasure.

Not content with being a passive recipient, she gave as good as she got, loving the way he reacted to her efforts. Both remembered how the other liked to be touched and stroked. The heat between them escalated into a controlled bonfire that left both breathless and racing towards ecstasy. Connor took Sara over the cliffs of desire twice before he joined her in that pleasure, which triggered her third orgasm.

Mindful of his weight, Connor lowered himself as he regained his breathing. He moved to cuddle her close and kissed her.

“Better?”

She chuckled ruefully. “As if you need to ask.” She rolled over and kissed him. “But if you wanted to go another round, say in an hour, I wouldn’t say no.” She yawned, surprised to find herself fatigued.

He smiled and kissed her again. “Sleep,” he urged.

Not finding a reason to argue with that notion, she closed her eyes.

* * *

The rich scent of coffee woke Sara out of her slumber. She looked over to see Connor, wearing a pair of sweatpants, walking into the bedroom with a pot of coffee and two mugs. He set the coffee service on the table, poured a mug of coffee, and presented it to her after giving her a kiss. Pleased, she tasted it. The potent brew shook any remaining cobwebs out of her brain.

“Is this your way of telling me to go home?”

Connor shot her an annoyed look. “No. Your phone rang, and you slept through it.” He passed her the device, which she had left in her jacket downstairs.

She glanced at the voicemail log and saw it was her partner, calling to check on her. “It’s my partner, worrying since her brother saw me drinking in a bar. I’ll call her later.” Sara offered Connor a rueful smile. “Nereida thinks since she doesn’t see me drink that often, any time she does, it’s cause for concern.”

“She hasn’t seen how well you hold your liquor?”

“She’s a huge advocate for decreasing alcoholism among police officers. As much as I appreciate her advocacy, I don’t want to scare her by showing her why I can hold my liquor.” Sara shook her head. “Or why I survived half the shit I’ve lived through since I became the Wielder.”

Amused, Connor asked, “How long has she been your partner?”

“Six weeks. She’s a transfer from DC; I’m supposed to show her the way we do things here.”

“Do you like her?”

Sara shrugged. “More than I did my last one. He was an asshole, and I got saddled with him because they needed proof before they could fire him.”

“But you don’t like her much,” Connor noted.

“Haven’t you figured out I don’t like most people?” She set her phone aside and sipped her coffee.

Connor barked a laugh. “Were you always like that and I never noticed?”

“Always,” she assured him.

He leaned in and kissed her. “I like you that way. Stay, Sara; spend the day with me.”

She smiled ruefully at the offer. “As tempting as you are, I should go home. I haven’t gone grocery shopping yet and that way leads me to eating crap instead of something healthy.”

“At least let me make you breakfast so you’re not hungry when you’re shopping,” he countered.

She accepted the offer, recognizing he had a point. He waited as she dressed before he led her down into the enormous kitchen. The avocado-green, 1970s-era scheme made Sara grin; she had forgotten the decor.

“Thought you planned to change this,” she noted as she took a seat at the kitchen island.

Connor shrugged. “It still works.”

She laughed. “And retro is in?”

He nodded and pulled ingredients out of the fridge. He made her a Denver omelet. The onions, ham, and bell pepper were pre-chopped. Sara suspected it was something he made often enough to not want to mess with prep more than once a week or he had eaten earlier.

“Not eating?” she asked when he plated the omelet and served it to her.

“Ate earlier; you slept through me getting up. I got the impression that thing on your wrist wanted you to sleep. It looked at me.” He shook his head. “Is the stone its eye?”

“Yeah. It likes you; it rarely lets people see that. Some mornings it gets contrary and tries to make up for giving me nightmares.” Sara smiled ruefully. The omelet was excellent. It made her remember that one thing Connor was good at was breakfast. Remembering that made her abruptly conscious of the way they weren’t in a relationship.

“Do you ever wish you could give the Witchblade to someone else?”

Sara barked a laugh. “Tried that. The first one tried to sell it on eBay to the highest bidder, like it was another piece of jewelry. I took it back because the winning bidder wanted her to use it to control the drug trade. I didn’t agree; she fought me and lost. The second tried to destroy it in fire; she couldn’t handle the visions. It killed her and returned to me. I’m not about to risk a third time.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sara met his eyes. “If it left me now, I won’t survive it,” she confessed. “I don’t age as long as I’m the Wielder, but I’ve seen what happens to people it leaves. It’s not pretty.”

“Even if it leaves you lonely and grieving?”

“Like I told you five years ago, Connor, we met when you were convinced the world didn’t need you anymore. You don’t have to repay me by being my next grand romance; that’s more trouble than I need.”

“Let me at least be a friend. That thing isn’t good for your sanity when it tells you someone you cared about will die and how. You said last night the Witchblade was screaming in your head. What was it screaming about?”

Sara shook her head. “Blood and death. Sometimes it gets too excited about how it was right, and babbles about how the world will end.” She sipped coffee, resignation on her face. “And how alone and insane I will be when that happens.”

Connor blanched. “Does it mean it as a warning or a prediction?”

“Both,” Sara noted sourly as she finished her omelet. Seeing the look on his face, she sighed. “Connor, this thing has been screaming in my head since 2002. When it gets bad enough, sex with someone I trust tends to quiet it down for a while.”

“You deserve more than that,” Connor noted quietly, his heart aching for her.

“My soulmate’s dead. I’m not interested in finding someone. Even if I didn’t have the Witchblade, they’d have to deal with my work as a homicide detective. Even if I do keep regular hours now that I’m a senior officer, I still get called out at odd hours.”

“And what will you do when they look at you and realizing you haven’t aged a day?”

Sara flashed him a smile. “Come to you for suggestions, of course.”

Realizing he would get nowhere by arguing with her, Connor sighed and asked, “More coffee?”

She shook her head. “I should get going. Thanks for last night and breakfast.”

He watched her collect and put on her weapons and her motorcycle gear. “If you need someone to talk to or hold you, you don’t have to wait until 3 AM to visit me. My number hasn’t changed.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she assured him, and walked out.

Instinct told Connor he would see her again. He only hoped it would be under better circumstances.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, constructive criticism, and kudos welcome, even after the initial posting date.


End file.
